‘A disagreeable night, isn’t it?’ he said casually.

‘Where are we going?’

‘To your home, of course. Unless you’d rather go to a hotel or-’

‘No. That’s fine.’

The car was rolling along down Vía Layetana. Valera gazed at the deserted streets with little interest.

‘What are you doing?’ I finally asked.

‘What do you think I’m doing? Representing you and looking after your interests.’

‘Tell the driver to stop the car,’ I said.

The chauffeur looked at Valera’s eyes in the mirror. Valera shook his head and gestured to him to continue.

‘Don’t talk nonsense, Señor Martín. It’s late, it’s cold and I’m taking you home.’

‘I’d rather walk.’

‘Be reasonable.’

‘Who sent you?’

Valera sighed and rubbed his eyes.

‘You have good friends, Señor Martín. It is important in life to have good friends and especially to know how to keep them,’ he said. ‘As important as knowing when one is stubbornly following the wrong path.’

‘Might that path be the one that goes past Casa Marlasca, number 13, Carretera de Vallvidrera?’

Valera smiled patiently, as if he were scolding an unruly child.

‘Señor Martín, believe me when I say that the further away you stay from that house and that business, the better for you. Do accept at least this piece of advice.’

When he reached Paseo de Colón, the chauffeur turned and drove up to Calle Comercio and from there to the entrance of Paseo del Borne. The carts with meat and fish, ice and spices were beginning to accumulate opposite the large marketplace. As we drove past, four boys were unloading the carcass of a calf, leaving a trail of blood that could be smelled in the air.

‘Your area is charming, full of picturesque scenes, Señor Martín.’

The driver stopped on the corner of Calle Flassaders and got out of the car to open the door for us. The lawyer got out with me.

‘I’ll come with you to the door,’ he said.

‘People will think we’re lovers.’

We entered the alleyway, a chasm of shadows, and headed towards my house. On reaching the front door, the lawyer offered me his hand with professional courtesy.

‘Thanks for getting me out of that place.’

‘Don’t thank me,’ replied Valera, pulling an envelope out of the inside pocket of his coat.

I recognised the wax seal with the angel even in the tenuous light that dripped from the street lamp above our heads. Valera handed me the envelope and, with a final nod, walked back to the waiting car. I opened my front door and went up the steps to the apartment. When I got in I went straight to the study and placed the envelope on the desk. I opened it and pulled out the folded sheet of paper with the boss’s writing.

Martín, dear friend,

I trust this note finds you in good health and good spirits. I happen to be passing through the city and would love the pleasure of your company this Friday at seven o’clock in the evening in the billiard room of the Equestrian Club, where we can talk about the progress of our project.

Until then, please accept my warm regards,

ANDREAS CORELLI

I folded the sheet of paper and put it carefully in the envelope. Then I lit a match and, holding the envelope by one corner, moved it closer to the flame. I watched it burn until the wax turned to scarlet tears that fell on the desk and my fingers were covered in ashes.

‘Go to hell,’ I whispered. The night, darker than ever, leaned in against the windowpanes.

36

Sitting in the armchair in the study, I waited for a dawn that did not come, until anger got the better of me and I went out into the street ready to defy Valera’s warning. A cold, biting wind was blowing, the sort that precedes dawn in wintertime. As I crossed Paseo del Borne I thought I heard footsteps behind me. I turned round for a moment but couldn’t see anyone except for the market boys unloading carts so I continued walking. When I reached Plaza Palacio I saw the lights of the first tram of the day waiting in the mist that crept up from the port. Snakes of blue light crackled along the overhead power cable. I stepped into the tram and sat at the front. The same conductor who’d been present on my last trip took the money for my ticket. A dozen or so passengers dribbled in, each one alone. After a few minutes the tram set off and we began our journey. Across the sky stretched a web of red capillaries between black clouds. There was no need to be a poet or a wise man to know that it was going to be a bad day.

By the time we reached Sarriá, dawn had broken with a grey, dull light that robbed the morning of any colour. I climbed the deserted, narrow streets of the district towards the lower slopes of the hillside. Occasionally I thought I again heard footsteps behind me, but each time I stopped and looked back there was nobody there. At last I reached the entrance to the passage leading to Casa Marlasca and made my way through a blanket of dead leaves that crunched underfoot. Slowly, I crossed the courtyard and walked up the stairs to the front door, peering through the large windows of the facade. I rapped with the knocker three times and moved back a few steps. I waited for a moment, but no answer came. I knocked again and heard the echoes fading away inside the house.

‘Good morning!’ I called out.

The grove surrounding the property seemed to absorb the sound of my voice. I went around the house, past the swimming pool area and then on to the conservatory. Its windows were darkened by closed wooden shutters which made it impossible to see inside, but one of the windows next to the glass door was slightly open. The bolt securing the door was just visible through the gap. I put my arm through the window and slid open the bolt. The door gave way with a metallic creak. I looked behind me once more, to make sure there was nobody there, and went in.

As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I began to distinguish a few outlines. I went over to the windows and half-opened the shutters. A fan of light cut through the darkness, revealing the full profile of the room.

‘Is anyone here?’ I called out.

The sound of my voice sank into the bowels of the house like a coin falling into a bottomless well. I walked to the end of the conservatory, where an arch of carved wood led to a dim corridor lined with paintings that were barely visible on the velvet-covered walls. At the end of the corridor there was a large, round sitting room with mosaic floors and a mural of enamelled glass showing the figure of a white angel with one arm extended and fingers pointing like flames. A wide staircase rose in a spiral around the room. I stopped at the foot of the stairs and called out again.

‘Good morning! Señora Marlasca?’

The total silence of the house drowned the dull echo of my words. I went up the stairs to the first floor and paused on the landing, looking down on the sitting room and the mural. From there I could see the trail my feet had left on the film of dust covering the ground. Apart from my footsteps, the only other sign of movement I could discern was parallel lines drawn in the dust, about half a metre apart, and a trail of footprints between them. Large footprints. I stared at those marks in some confusion until I understood what I was seeing: the movement of a wheelchair and the marks of the person pushing it.

I thought I heard a noise behind my back and turned. A half-open door at one end of the corridor was gently swinging and I could feel a breath of cold air. I moved slowly towards the door, glancing at the rooms on either side, bedrooms with dust sheets covering the furniture. The closed windows and heavy darkness suggested these rooms had not been used in a long time, except for one, which was larger than the others, the master bedroom. It smelled of that odd mixture of perfume and illness associated with elderly people. I imagined this must be the room of Marlasca’s widow, but there was no sign of her.